the bloody
time. It's everybody else that's jokers."
Nowhere. I'd got nowhere. I knew more or less how, why, and who.
And still I'd got nowhere, stymied in every direction. I was getting narked.
7
Speaking of sex, so many things puzzle me. Like a woman's all chat
immediately afterwards, then she zonks out an hour later. But the man's off
into a melancholy twilight doom-riddled world, a comatose grief from which he
only slowly returns to remember the ecstasy and delight. In particular, the
last thing he wants is his bird prattling gossip into his ear, like Connie was
doing to mine. The fact that she was only reporting the gossip I'd told her to
collect was no excuse.
"Darling! It's so interesting! Mr. Pinder's daughter, Caterina's
mother, passed away. Her stepmother, Lavinia—"
"Who?" I reared blearily out of coma.
"Lavinia married Geoffrey Norman. He's hopeless and she's a
tramp."
Rear and blear. "Who? Caterina?"
"No, silly. Lavinia. I keep telling you, darling. Eventually
she got so bad the village shunned her. Scandal, the lot. Lovely, darling!
People are sorry for Caterina and Geoffrey Norman. . . . Old Mr. Pinder runs
some sort of arts foundation ..." Her voice faded. My mind went into
neutral, and the world went away.
That old man had been on my mind half—if not all— the night.
Clearly he was a nutter. Even if he and his syndicate were worth a king's
ransom, a nutter's still off his rocker any way you look. What with Caterina's
hatred and Granddad's whispery voice, his scam seemed more unreal.
"The steps leading down to Venice's lovely canals were for a
lady's descent to the gondolas," he'd said, eyes glistening. "But the
bottom steps never emerge from the water now. And the Piazza San Marco itself
is underwater in the great yearly tides from the Adriatic Sea. The ground
floors are thirty inches above sea level. Oh, the tourists pour in and see the
Queen of the Inland Seas resplendent there in all her ancient glory. But they
go, and the sea again takes over. Only each year Venice is lower and the sea
more rampant. Politicians promise. Engineers measure. But the duck-boards, the passerelle , are left out now, to
disfigure the loveliest of cities.
"And do you know what is the most shameful thing of all,
Lovejoy?" he concluded, his cracked-flute voice embittered. "Our
belief in our own permanence. We little know that what passes for
permanence"—he paused a second, wondering whether to be pleased at a possible
pun, waved it away—"is only a gift of constant endeavor. Man's priceless
art treasures must be ceaselessly protected, or they vanish. Like Venice is
emptying of treasures and people."
"How can one man—" I'd interjected, but he washed out my
objection derisorily.
"There are many of us in my syndicate, Lovejoy. Finance is no
problem. Let me tell you a story. Vivaldi's church stands on the Riva—the
lagoon waterfront—and contains the most pathetic memento you could ever
imagine. A marble rectangle set in the floor, inscribed that the church's
Tiepolo painting was restored by American money." He paused to allow the
world time to prepare for his next utterance. "Is that immortality?
Lovejoy, the entire flooring, which records in immutable marble the generosity
of the Samuel H. Kress Foundation of New York, U.S.A., will soon have settled
forever beneath the waters of the Adriatic."
"But it's a try," I found myself protesting.
"Worthwhile."
"Pointless patchwork, Lovejoy. Darning the cabin curtains on
the Lusitania . Only success is worthwhile.
Don't you see?"
Eventually I did see. The love, the old man's conviction had swept
me along. I almost forgot he was bonkers.
Which was all very well. In the cold light of day.
That same noon, Connie, Tinker, and me held a council in the White
Hart.
"You first. Tinker,” I told him to be quick about it, because
Connie was supposed to be on her way back from a shoe-buying trip to
Northampton.
"Nowt, Lovejoy." He took a note and got another pint
time. It's everybody else that's jokers."
Nowhere. I'd got nowhere. I knew more or less how, why, and who.
And still I'd got nowhere, stymied in every direction. I was getting narked.
7
Speaking of sex, so many things puzzle me. Like a woman's all chat
immediately afterwards, then she zonks out an hour later. But the man's off
into a melancholy twilight doom-riddled world, a comatose grief from which he
only slowly returns to remember the ecstasy and delight. In particular, the
last thing he wants is his bird prattling gossip into his ear, like Connie was
doing to mine. The fact that she was only reporting the gossip I'd told her to
collect was no excuse.
"Darling! It's so interesting! Mr. Pinder's daughter, Caterina's
mother, passed away. Her stepmother, Lavinia—"
"Who?" I reared blearily out of coma.
"Lavinia married Geoffrey Norman. He's hopeless and she's a
tramp."
Rear and blear. "Who? Caterina?"
"No, silly. Lavinia. I keep telling you, darling. Eventually
she got so bad the village shunned her. Scandal, the lot. Lovely, darling!
People are sorry for Caterina and Geoffrey Norman. . . . Old Mr. Pinder runs
some sort of arts foundation ..." Her voice faded. My mind went into
neutral, and the world went away.
That old man had been on my mind half—if not all— the night.
Clearly he was a nutter. Even if he and his syndicate were worth a king's
ransom, a nutter's still off his rocker any way you look. What with Caterina's
hatred and Granddad's whispery voice, his scam seemed more unreal.
"The steps leading down to Venice's lovely canals were for a
lady's descent to the gondolas," he'd said, eyes glistening. "But the
bottom steps never emerge from the water now. And the Piazza San Marco itself
is underwater in the great yearly tides from the Adriatic Sea. The ground
floors are thirty inches above sea level. Oh, the tourists pour in and see the
Queen of the Inland Seas resplendent there in all her ancient glory. But they
go, and the sea again takes over. Only each year Venice is lower and the sea
more rampant. Politicians promise. Engineers measure. But the duck-boards, the passerelle , are left out now, to
disfigure the loveliest of cities.
"And do you know what is the most shameful thing of all,
Lovejoy?" he concluded, his cracked-flute voice embittered. "Our
belief in our own permanence. We little know that what passes for
permanence"—he paused a second, wondering whether to be pleased at a possible
pun, waved it away—"is only a gift of constant endeavor. Man's priceless
art treasures must be ceaselessly protected, or they vanish. Like Venice is
emptying of treasures and people."
"How can one man—" I'd interjected, but he washed out my
objection derisorily.
"There are many of us in my syndicate, Lovejoy. Finance is no
problem. Let me tell you a story. Vivaldi's church stands on the Riva—the
lagoon waterfront—and contains the most pathetic memento you could ever
imagine. A marble rectangle set in the floor, inscribed that the church's
Tiepolo painting was restored by American money." He paused to allow the
world time to prepare for his next utterance. "Is that immortality?
Lovejoy, the entire flooring, which records in immutable marble the generosity
of the Samuel H. Kress Foundation of New York, U.S.A., will soon have settled
forever beneath the waters of the Adriatic."
"But it's a try," I found myself protesting.
"Worthwhile."
"Pointless patchwork, Lovejoy. Darning the cabin curtains on
the Lusitania . Only success is worthwhile.
Don't you see?"
Eventually I did see. The love, the old man's conviction had swept
me along. I almost forgot he was bonkers.
Which was all very well. In the cold light of day.
That same noon, Connie, Tinker, and me held a council in the White
Hart.
"You first. Tinker,” I told him to be quick about it, because
Connie was supposed to be on her way back from a shoe-buying trip to
Northampton.
"Nowt, Lovejoy." He took a note and got another pint
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